A Study of Love
by AllByMyLonesome
Summary: A modern retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Clara does not believe in love. Nathaniel does not have time for love. When a powerful enchantress forces them together, can they overcome their pasts to finally discover love? Please R&R!
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Clara did not believe in true love. Ever since her parents' messy divorce, Clara's beautiful dreams of happily-ever-after had drifted out the window. When she was little, she used to spend hours daydreaming and reading books about Knights in Shining Armor and Damsels in Distress. Her mother used to tell her stories every night about the fairies that lived in their garden. These fairy tales ran rampant through her imagination until one day when Clara's father, a stiff, businessman with a logical, down-to-earth mind, said to her, "There are no such things as Fairies!" After that exclamation, Clara ran to her room, sobbing, refusing to come out for several hours. However that was only the beginning. Her father, George, hated the way that her mother, Melanie, had raised little Clara.

"She will never be able to face reality because of all the stupid fairy tales you tell her every night!" Her father yelled at Melanie one night.

"I read fairy tales every night during my childhood, and look how I turned out!" Melanie cried back accusingly.

"An impractical, unrealistic, idealistic, naïve dreamer!" George responded, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her with every word, before roughly throwing her from him.

"Well at least I have an imagination, Mr. Pragmatist!" She exclaimed, poking him forcefully in the chest.

This type of argument lasted for months before they finally gave up, and filed for a divorce. The split was ugly: neither could agree or even compromise on settlement or custody, and it was a full 5 months and $25,000 in fees later before the divorce was actually signed. During this time, Clara's perfect view of the world faded, leaving her cynical and pessimistic. The fairy tales were packed into a box and placed out of sight, and the dolls were given away or thrown out. During her teenage years, Clara's approach to life lost its romantic tendencies. Although a very pretty girl, with shoulder-length light brown hair with a natural curl and bright blue eyes, grays and blacks filled her wardrobe. Her empty bookcases were filled with textbooks and depressing literature. William Faulkner and J.D. Salinger were featured prominently on her shelves, and an anthology of E.A. Poe lay on her bedside table. While she became a very good student and was very successful academically, she was rarely ever happy. After her mother died when she was 15 and she went to live with her father for the rest of high school, Clara made few friends and rarely spent time doing anything other than study. All her hard work had gotten her into Yale, where she attained a Master's Degree in Legal Studies. After graduating, she got a job as a legal assistant in Boston, and it was there that her tumultuous story began.

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Nathaniel did not have time for love. Champion of one-night-stands, with a trail of broken hearts in his wake, Nathaniel was far too preoccupied with keeping his social standing far above everyone else to waste his time on love. He had no real love of his parents. His mother was a prominent socialite with no time for her son, but time enough to visit the spa every other day. His father could not care less. It was common knowledge to everyone, even his wife and son, that the time he spent in his office of Newport Publishing was not spent diligently working through mounds of paperwork. No, Charles Newport did not have time for his son either, so Nathaniel was left to grow up on his own, and as a dashing 26-year-old, it was likely that he would follow directly in the footsteps of his father. Nathaniel had attended Harvard—purely because of a donation from his father to the school—but he spent the entirety of his four years of wasting his father's money on sex, drugs and rock and roll. By the end of his sojourn at Harvard, Nathaniel had a rather large tab at the local bar and was well known across the town as a heartbreaker. His father, of course, funded all of Nathaniel's escapades, proud of the snippets of gossip that he heard every so often about his carefree son. The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, he though with satisfaction. When Nathaniel graduated from college, he left the states to spend two years abroad with his two best friends: scotch and a well-padded wallet. Upon returning to Boston, headquarters of Newport Advertising, he was given a prominent job in his father's business, and left to squander his father's fortune. Nathaniel hired a diligent secretary to do all his work, and thus was able to spend the entirety of his time however he liked. He spent very little time in his office, but it was in this office at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, where our story truly begins…

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Hope you liked it! Please R&R and I'll love you forever...

A-N


	2. An Unwelcome Guest

**Chapter 1: An Unwelcome Visitor**

Nathaniel Newport sat at his desk, clicking through photos of himself on Facebook, untagging any that were unattractive. Not that there were very many, he thought, opening Photo Booth on his Macbook Pro to get a better look at himself. 26 years old with jet-black hair, strong jaw lines, slate-grey eyes and a killer smile, Nathaniel was a very handsome individual, especially in his own eyes. He was just returning to Facebook so continue his scrutiny of his profile, he heard a beep from his office phone. Pressing the speaker button, he responded with a tone dripping with impatience and disdain.

"Yes?"

"There's a… lady here to see you sir. Shall I send her in?" The voice of his secretary replied. He just loved it when people called him 'sir.' It made him feel that much more important.

"Very well," he replied. It was Christmas Eve, and while Nathaniel had no time for celebrating in the traditional way, he knew the majority of the country was eating a large feast, or praying in a church. _What does this woman want?_ He thought, as he closed his laptop and opened the file on the desk that his secretary had placed there specifically for this purpose. He began skimming the document, not really absorbing any of the material, as the door opened softly. Nathaniel's eyes remained trained on the document, even as he felt the woman come to stand a few feet from his desk.

"Well? What do you want? A job? A pamphlet? Perhaps an ad for your local newspaper." he began wearily, still not looking up. When she did not respond right away, he snapped "Hurry up! I don't have all day!" He heard her draw a ragged breath, before beginning softly,

"Nothing, sir. Nothing of that nature, sir."

Nathaniel's head shot up, his cold grey eyes shocked and accusatory as he took in her disfigured appearance that matched her hideous voice. Her back was humped, and her left shoulder sank into her side. Her right hip jutted out in a gnarled bump and a lumpy brown cloak covered her body. Her face was melted like wax, and her nose stuck out in a hook. A large mole graced her cheek, and her beady black eyes were sunk into her head. Nathaniel had always been afraid of ugliness, ever since his grandmother—a rare specimen of spitefulness—told him that while his good looks were a blessing, he should stay away from the ugly lest he become ugly himself. Granted, he did not believe in ugliness by osmosis anymore, but his flawless features trained his mind to feel superior to others in every way, and he always shied away from those who did not live up to his (very high) standards. Thus, upon seeing the woman before him, he stood up quickly, his chair flying against the wall with a loud bang, as his backed from the hag before him.

"Get out!" he whispered harshly, his mind in turmoil. What if one of his clients saw her in his office? He would be the laughing stock of the whole town!

"Please sir, give me only five minutes of your time, dear sir! My children and I have nowhere to go, no food to eat, and it is Christmas Eve! All I ask is that you give me five minutes of your time, and then I will leave! Is that too much to ask?" she begged, coming around the side of the desk. Nathaniel continued to cower away from her. He stopped as his back met the cold of the windowpane behind him.

"You have already taken too much of my time!" he cried, his eyes flashing, all attempts at discretion abandoned. She continued to advance, at the same time pulling from her cloak a single red rose.

"Please, I will give you this rose in payment. I would give more, but I have nothing else to give," she pleaded, her hooked nose mere inches from his face.

"What would I want with your puny rose?" he scoffed flapping his hands in her face to try to keep her away. When that did not work, he cried, "Get away from me, you wretch!" At that, she withdrew, just as the window behind Nathaniel flew open, blowing leaves and dirt from the roof into his office. Nathaniel wheeled around, and slammed the window shut once more, ending the onslaught of airborne debris. He turned around, muttering about sporadic windows, when he suddenly stopped. Standing before him was the most beautiful woman Nathaniel had ever seen. Her chocolate brown hair cascaded down her back past her waist, and her skin was radiant with a warm pink glow. Her form was full and curvy and the tight fitting gown molded to her like a glove, accenting her hourglass figure. However, it was her eyes that rendered Nathaniel speechless, though he was rarely a man who went for a woman based on her eyes. The lady's eyes were almost iridescent green, gleaming with a dangerous light that forced Nathaniel to look away.

"My L-Lady!" He stammered, "What—, Where—?" He trailed off in confusion. After a moment of silence, the Lady spoke.

"You are a cruel and selfish man, Nathaniel James Newport." Her voice was regal and commanding, and Nathaniel could not help cowering away from her. "You care not for the feelings of anyone but yourself; you seek to better yourself at the cost of others." With every word, the Lady became more majestic, glowing with an otherworldly aura. "As you have failed to look past the exterior of others to see their true personality within, let your true personality be known to all. You shall have but one chance to redeem yourself. If by your thirtieth birthday, you find a maiden to love who loves you in return, you shall be restored to your human form. However, if you should fail, you shall remain a beast forever!" With that proclamation, she began to fade as the curse sank into Nathaniel's mind. Desperately, he cried out,

"Wait! How shall I find this girl?" But the majestic Lady had turned to dust and blown from his room…

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Hope you all liked it! I realize now that I left out a crucial point in the prologue, but hopefully I will make sure everything's clear by the time it comes into play...I don't think i will be all that confusing, but if you _are_ confused, don't hesitate to let me know. Hehe, yes, I am trying to be sneaky. What I am trying to say is please please please review! Even if you're only saying that you're reading it, that's great. please, if you want more, TELL ME! otherwise, i don't know how I'll stay motivated. So please review, and I promise, the number of reviews and the time it takes me to write a chapter is directly proportional...

**Lauren:** Hope you liked the changes. There weren't really all that many, but as I read over it, I realized that I wanted to keep this PG for my audience, so I have toned it down, as you requested. thanks again =]

as I said, directly proportional, cough cough...=]

A-N


	3. A Rotten Christmas

***IMPORTANT Author's Note***

Hey all! So I have decided, for the sake of this story to alter the original story of BatB a bit, which means that I have also altered Chapter 1 of this story. So, before you read this, please go back and read the new and improved version of "An Unwelcome Guest" as it will help a lot in the later chapters...

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Chapter 2

"You can't make me! I'm not a child anymore!" Clara was furious. Not only was her father treating her like a little girl without a mind of her own, but he was asking her—no, ordering her—to accompany him to his meeting. "Why are you trying to make me do this?" she cried, confused and angry at his tyrannical tone.

"How do you expect me to treat you as an adult when you are as ignorant as a child?" he shot back, scathingly. "It is common knowledge that Charles Newport, President of Newport Advertising, the man with whom I will be meeting tomorrow, looks far more favorably on a pretty face than a haggard old one like mine. You are coming for your looks only. If he thinks he might be getting you as part of the deal, he might be more accepting."

A thousand retorts flew to her mind as she absorbed his last comment, however, she was incapable of vocalizing any of them. Despite his despicable intent and disgusting manner, her father had just admitted, not directly of course, that she was pretty. Granted, it wasn't much of a compliment, but to a girl who had been viewed her entire life as a pitiful mistake on the part of her parents, not intelligent enough or charismatic enough to make anything of herself—her father's words precisely—to be told that she was pretty enough to be a bargaining tool was astounding. Before she could make any sort of reply, however, her father continued in a patronizing manner.

"You will neither say nor do anything that would jeopardize our ability to make this deal. Better yet, you will say nothing at all, only acting servile and demur. Understand? And you will dress yourself up in the most alluring"—he spat the word out—"outfit you own. Remember, your presence in this meeting is merely to add to the overall appeal of the bargain, and you will do nothing—I repeat, nothing—to detract from the bargain. Do you fully understand me?"

And leaving the question unanswered, made to exit her apartment, before stopping himself momentarily and saying in an undertone,

"Oh, and here's your present. Don't bother thanking me." And with that endearing message, he dropped a small, unwrapped box on the table near the door, before rushing out of her apartment without a backward glance. _What a rotten Christmas, _Clara thought disgusted. She rose from her position on the sofa, and walked in a daze to the kitchen, where she pulled out a half-empty coke, and downed the rest in one swig. _Sugar, check. _She stopped at her cabinet on the way out of the kitchen. Opening its wooden door, she grabbed the bottle of Advil from the bottom shelf. Pouring out two into her hand, she downed them dry, hoping to stop the painful ache in her head. _Advil, check. _She walked out of the kitchen after placing the bottle back in the cabinet and made her way through the dining room/sitting room area to her bedroom. Opening the doors to her closet, she began to sort through her meager assortment of dresses, finally pulling out a red on that her aunt had given her last Christmas. She had never worn it; the price tag was still attached, but it was the least modest dress she owned. Although the logical part of her mind was screaming, _You don't have to do this! Just say NO!_ the rest of her mind, the part that had been conditioned at an early age to obey her father was resigned to do her duty as the obedient daughter. She set the dress down on her bed and slumped next to it. _Outfit, check. _Sitting upright once more, she hurried through the sitting room to the kitchen once more, following a growing craving. Opening the freezer, she assessed her options: cookie dough? Oreo mint? Cherry Garcia? Spying a carton in the very back, she pulled it out. Double Fudge Chocolate Brownie. _Perfect, _she thought, and grabbing a spoon and returning to the couch in her sitting room. _Ice Cream, check._

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"AAARRGG!" and with an almighty crash, another mirror shattered, and fell to the floor. So far, Nathaniel had broken all but one of the mirrors in hallway, once his most treasured room in his spacious townhouse. That one mirror was the only one he would not break, for rather than revealing his hideous face, it showed him anything he wished to see. This mirror was the only other gift given to him by the enchantress other than the rose, the only gift he treasured, for although he was an arrogant, stuck-up womanizer, he had the uncanny ability to accept reality.

Nathaniel did not believe that he would be returning to the life he once knew. He was fairly certain there was not a single woman on the face of the earth who could love him for who he was, and he was absolutely positive that he was incapable of falling in love. Therefore, he reasoned, he would never escape his imprisonment. This finality rendered the mirror invaluable to him, for it was the only way that he would be able to see what was happening in the outside world. The mailman had stopped coming, and the Internet connection at his house had failed. The first thing he had tried when his transformation had ceased was to access his computer. However, upon opening his laptop, the entire device had fallen apart, and the screen had split in two. Nathaniel had stared out his window for hours as the people passed in front of his house. Before the transformation, tourists had stopped regularly in front his majestic house, often pausing to take photos of each other in front of its columned façade. However, since the enchantress' visit, no one stopped to gape, no tourists snapped photos. It was as though the entire house had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Nathaniel had always liked Christmas. Not for the birth of Christ—he was an atheist—not for the food—although the roast beef had always been particularly delicious that day—but for the presents. Not that they were a surprise of course; Nathaniel bought them all for himself. The last true gift he had received was a pair of socks from his father. Not the most memorable present, but as it was the only one, it stuck in his mind. No, all the presents that sat under the plastic tree on Christmas morning had been bought by Nathaniel for himself the week before, and wrapped by his many servants on Christmas Eve. Perhaps it was a sick-minded celebration, Nathaniel reasoned, but he knew that if he did not by himself presents, there would be none under the tree. This Christmas had been different. This Christmas was filled with pain and agony as his transformation took place. Slender fingers turned to claws, his straight nose to a furred muzzle, and his pristine white teeth to fangs. That night had been spent cooped in his room, alternately pacing the floor, occasionally smashing a desk or tearing a curtain with a densely furred fist, and curling into a fetal position in the darkest corner of the room.

Now it was morning, and Nathaniel had woken at the crack of dawn, an unusual circumstance for him, to see a red painted sky and a large orange sun that seemed to burn hole into his very soul. After that, Nathaniel had yanked the curtains shut, and flung open the door of his room. He tore through the house, closing every window against the sun. He was just beginning to wonder where his plethora of servants had disappeared to when he glimpsed his hall of mirrors. He crept closer, apprehensively glancing into the mirrors, scared of what he would see. However, at the first sight of brown fur, he flung out his paw, shattering the pane before him. And so the path of destruction continued. Nathaniel would venture forward before glimpsing himself, his hideous self, in the mirror, upon which he would smash the reflective surface scattering the floor with shards as the gold plated frame fell of its hook to the ground with a loud thud. He continued, and soon with each shattered mirror an animalistic cry of rage and frustration would escape his lips. At long last, he had shattered every single mirror save the small, round, silver-backed mirror that lay innocently on the round table at the end of the hall. He reached out a hand—excuse me, paw—and turned over the delicate mirror. The surface was blank, but as his whispered, "Show me my father," The surface swirled with a blood red hue and an image of a short, balding man sitting behind a large desk swam into focus. The man was staring, captivated by something or someone just out of sight of the mirror, and he nervously ran a hand over the sparsely haired surface of his head. Suddenly the object of his father's discomfort came into view: the profile of a girl in her early twenties, with a pretty face and thick, brown hair and a curved form. A tall man in his late fifties rushed up to his father's desk, blocking the girl from Nathaniel's view. Suddenly, Nathaniel flung the mirror across the room, where it hit the wall with a dull thud, and clattered to the ground, unbroken. Nathaniel turned away, raking his claws through his thick mane of hair. Of all the comforts of the world, what Nathaniel missed the most was the sight of a pretty face.

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So, again, hope you all enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it...

**savethemadscientist: **glad i didn't disappoint. and yes, he is an ass. thank you for reviewing (again) your comments are what keep me going...thanks

**Lauren:** thank you! i don't think there's much else to say, but thank you!

**MJ: **thank you so much for reviewing. and yes, you should break that bad habit...i do not plan on stopping writing, but hopefully i will get more reviews regardless...they help to guilt trip me when i get too lazy to keep going. I'm glad you like the story, i try my best to be original, but sometimes other influences slip in. sad, but unavoidable. again, thank you for reviewing! keep it up! =P

**Mickeygee: **thank you for reviewing. actually, i don't think his dad cares all that much about what happens to him. despicable, but true...thanks for the input though. and yes, his lifestyle will be rather altered, although we really only have clara to thank for that...ok, enough hints, but i hope you keep reading, its really helpful in keeping me motivated =]

Again, thanks to all those who reviewed! you make my day! as for those of you who are reading my story and not reviewing, **shame on you!** well, you know the drill, please R&R!

A-N


	4. A Freezing Sensation

**A/N**: Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers. I hope you all read my changes to Chapter 1. I realize its not exactly faithful to the original story, but it speeds things up a bit...

**NB:** ~0~ means a skip in time, not a change of perspective.

Anyways, Hope you all like it...

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**Chapter 3: A Freezing Sensation**

Her feet were sore and her hands were freezing as she ran carelessly along the sidewalk. Clara did not know or care where she was going, as long as it was away. Away from that building, away from that office, away from that slimy man with his wandering hands, away from her unfeeling father. She couldn't quite remember how it had happened, but somehow she had fled the place and was now running through the streets of Boston in whichever way her feet would take her. Stopping at an intersection she glanced up at the sky. Small snowflakes, the kind that foretold heavy snowfall, were floating from the grey clouds above. Clara could not remember when the snow had started, but in her revealing red dress, stiletto heels and flimsy cardigan, she was in no way appropriately dressed for the weather. Slowly gazing around, she realized that she was completely lost. The houses and trees were all unfamiliar, and there was no one in sight to ask for directions. Figuring the best idea was to keep going, she wrapped the thin cardigan tightly around herself and pushed her way through the bone chilling wind.

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Clara did not know how long she had been walking. The cold was quickly rendering her brain dysfunctional, and the only thing keeping her going was a stubborn determination to beat the storm. The snow had picked up and there was a thick coating of white on everything around her. If she hadn't been so cold she might have noticed how beautiful the landscape looked in its blanket of white. However, Clara was in no position to admire anything. Her fingers were a pale shade of blue and her teeth had begun chattering long ago. Pushing valiantly through the harsh wind and flying snow, she came upon a street that to her numbed brain looked more promising than the others. She was making slow but steady progress along the street when her foot slipped off the sidewalk, landing in a large pile of snow left over form the last storm. Shuddering with the painful shock of cold, she tried to pull her foot out of the snow bank. However, her foot refused to be pulled from the icy embankment. Her weak form struggling vainly against the prison, she thought about all her wrong turns, how lost she was, and most of all, how much her father had hurt her. These morbid thoughts brought tears to her eyes, which soon overflowed, freezing on her cheeks. With one final yank, her foot came out of the snow bank with a large crack, and she staggered backwards in pain, before falling into the snow behind her, and feeling no more.

**

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**

Nathaniel was cowering in the darkness of his attic when they came. Softly, like wisps of smoke, they tugged at his fur and clothing, pushing and pulling at him. He made to brush them off, worried now that his mind was playing tricks on him. But the breeze was insistent, and he eventually pushed himself to his feet and let the wind guide him to the window.

Outside was a swirling vortex of snow, a white, impenetrably cold image that made Nathaniel pull away from the cold glass of the window. However, he had no sooner pulled away from the window than the breeze resumed its efforts to push him against the windowpane, the breeze trying vainly to show him something. He was about to turn away from the glass when his gaze landed on something red against the white of the snow. Pressing his face against the window, he tried to focus on the vivid form, but only succeeded in fogging the window. Giving up, he pushed himself away, pacing back towards the door. He was about to turn to the darkness of the corner when the breeze returned, tugging him out the door. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he forced down his anger and let the wind pull him down the enormous flight of stairs in the center of his townhouse. It was not until he reached the front door that the wind fell away, and he stepped back from the large wooden door, muttering,

"Oh no, I'm so not going out—" he stopped when the door swung open of its own accord, and the wind forced him out the door. He turned around, trying to push back into the warmth of his house, when something red flickered in the corner of his eye, a splotch of color against the monotone, white landscape around him. He paused, and made his way to the side of the majestic columned front porch in order to get a better view of the blemish on the snow. Peering closer, he realized in horror that the red form against the snow was a girl clothed only in a thin red dress. Her long legs stretched out before her, almost as white as her snowy bed, and her brown hair was spread in a halo around her head. Nathaniel shook his head, and turned back to the house, muttering about fools and lunatics, when a forceful shove from the wind stopped him in his tracks.

"No, no, NO!" he growled, addressing the breeze. "If she is crazy enough to make that snow bank her bed, then so be it." He said and moved to the reenter the house, but the breeze stopped him again, this time maintaining pressure on his midsection. "What do you want me to do," he snarled, "bring the madwoman _inside_?" and with that question, the breeze disappeared, ending the pressure against Nathaniel. "Yes?" he said shocked. "Are you nuts? She could be deranged! Or sick! Or—or—" he stopped looking once more out at the girl. She looked so pitiful against the white backdrop, and the snow had already begun to build up on top of her. "Very well." He said quietly, then snapping his head around to the place were the wind had formerly been, he said with more force, "But I don't want to have anything, I repeat, anything, to do with her once she's inside. Do you understand me?" and with that question hanging in the air, he walked down the front steps and into the blizzard. The icy wind of the storm tore at his clothing and fur, and the hair around his feet quickly became wet. He made his way to where the girl lay, and after a moments hesitation, bent down and lifted her into his arms. She was unconscious, and her ankle was hanging in an abnormal position, but when he pulled her against his chest, she curled against him, seeking the warmth of his body. He gazed down at her small face, noting her delicate nose, long eyelashes and full lips before loping back to the house with her in his arms. He hurried inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.

"Are any of the guest rooms made up?" he asked quickly, breathing hard, and clutching his burden against his chest. The breeze latched hold of the fur near his paw and tugged him forward. He followed the wind as it led him up the grand staircase and into the largest of his guest rooms. He walked quietly to the bed, and laid the girl—no, woman—on the coverlet. She grumbled in her sleep, and clung to the fabric of his extra-large tee shirt—along with his sweat pants, the casual shirt was the only item of clothing that still fit him. Reaching up with gentle fingers—if they could be called that—he loosened her death grip on his shirt and straightened, stepping away from the bed. Gazing once more at her unconscious form, he muttered to the breeze, "Take care of her," before fleeing the room. As he raced down the hallway towards his dark sanctuary, he berated himself for being so sentimental. One of his rules when dealing with women was to never develop feelings for them, and here he was, two minutes after carrying her delicate form to her room, asking his breeze to 'take care of her.' He didn't even know her name! _that never stopped you before,_ a nagging voice said clearly in the back of his mind. Shutting off the annoying voice, and reaching his attic, he threw open the door and smashed the nearest piece of furniture in his attempt to let out all his bottled up frustration. But smashing things only worked so well, and he soon found himself crouched by his round mirror, saying the words,

"Show me the girl."

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Hope you all liked it. i really hope Nathaniel wasn't too out of character, but tell me what you think. please? pleeeeeaase! savethemadscientist made a very relevant point in their review. An author doesn't just ask for reviews for the 'feel good' of knowing people are reading their work, but reviews help the writer to know what the reader thinks of the story. often times I know exactly what is going on, and it all makes sense to me, but my mom or dad will read it and be completely confused. as the story is our brainchild, we authors have a very narrow perspective on how the story turns out.

Long story short: I really look forward to you reviews; they are incredibly important to me. and for those of you who are reviewing, thank you so so so much.

**savethemadscientist:** yes, her father is awful. however, unfortunately, this is not the last we're going to see of him...poor clara. thank you thank you thank you. you are my new favorite person. truly.

**kkkkkk:** haha yes, but that would leave us without our protagonist/antagonist, and we can't have that happen, now can we...=] thanks for the review, hope you keep reading!

**Lauren: **a really awful childhood, i imagine, but she didn't tell me that part of the story, so i wouldn't know =P yeah, you know how i said she was a workaholic (well in nicer terms) yeah, that was a result of her father. =[ I honestly don't think Nathaniel's father cares all that much about his son. I mean, he's proud on some perverted level about Nathaniel's 'escapades' but he really doesn't have any heart to care about him...as far as i know, we wont see much more of Nathaniel's father, although that could change, however, Clara's father will come up again, as he's rather important. I really want to develop their relationship. As the title aptly implies this story is a study of all the different types of love, not just the romantic type. at least, it is in theory. we'll see if that comes out...as for her reaction when her dad left, I tried to approach that like i would in her footsteps. and yes, i would most certainly take a stop by the freezer in that situation, don't tell my mother ;) thanks for your reviews, they are really inspiring, and give me a lot to think about when I write my story. thank you thank you thank you

I think that's it (for now) Hope you're enjoying the story! if you have a heart, pleasey please click the little link at the bottom of this page. if its just "good" or "bad" thats ok by me! just let me know you're reading it. merci beaucoup, grazie mille, danke, ありがとう, 谢谢, σας ευχαριστούμε, 감사하십시오, obrigado, вы, gracias...and thank you! and if i got any of those wrong, i apologize, i blame it all on my mac translator... =]

A-N


	5. Of Memories and Ministrations

Sorry I didn't update yesterday, but in return, I made it twice as long. Happy? So without further ado...

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Chapter 4: Of Memories and Ministrations

Clara regained consciousness slowly, and the warm glow of an incandescent light hit her eyelids, turning the black of her sleep a warm orange glow. Carefully, she opened her eyes, blinking rapidly in the bright light of the room. As her eyes focused she gazed around at her surroundings. The bed she was lying on was a soft peach color, and the gauzy drapes surrounding is canopy were of a lighter shade with gold embroidering. The room itself was enormous. There was a large window seat with several fluffy pillows and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled to bursting with books of every shape and size. There was a small round table and a delicate chair for breakfast positioned near the grand fireplace where a fire burned merrily. Groggily pushing herself up from the pillows, she shook her head lightly, trying to remember how she had gotten to the beautiful room. She remembered snow and cold and numb feet, and then, suddenly, like a bucket of cold water dumped over her head, she remembered the events of the day before…

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_ Clara's red stiletto heels clacked noisily on the tile floor of the large apartment building as she followed her father into the large elevator. The operator was outfitted in a maroon suit that complemented the décor of the building, and even had a small cap to match. _

_ "What floor, sir, madam?" he asked as the doors shut. _

_ Her father did not even spare him a glance as his perused the contents of the manila folder in his hands. "Floor 12," he said briefly. Clara looked over at the operator, and watched press the button before turning to indiscreetly stare at Clara. Clara inwardly groaned. That the bellman thought her sophisticated enough to call her madam was encouraging, but his wandering gaze and the immodest fire in his eyes that lit brightly as he stared at her long legs and curvy figure reminded her jarringly of her role in the afternoon's meeting: a bargaining chip, a trophy to be awarded to the highest bidder. And though it was her father putting her in the position, Clara was not disgusted with him so much as with herself. That she could not stand up for herself, giving in to her father's wishes without so much as a convincing argument was humiliating. All her life, Clara had thought she was a strong girl: life had forced her to be that way, and she had successfully risen to the challenge. But when it came time to show that strength, Clara was incapable of doing anything but give in. and as the elevator rose higher and higher towards the fateful office, Clara's hatred for herself grew greater and greater. The elevator gilded to a stop at the twelfth floor, and the doors dinged open. Her father strolled out and motioned absently for Clara to follow him. As she stepped out of the elevator, her nausea intensified, and she wobbled a bit before steadying herself. Refusing to meet her father's glare, she walked meekly behind him, every so often glancing around the hall before returning her gaze to her feet. When her father stopped in front of a closed mahogany door with the gold plaque, _Charles Newport, President_, her breath caught in her throat and she had to school her breath to stop the frantic hyperventilating caused by her nerves. Her father knocked on the door and a small young man opened it almost immediately, revealing the interior of a sparsely decorated office where an overweight, aging, balding man sat in a large leather chair behind a bulky wooden desk. He gestured impatiently to the hard, high-backed chairs across from him without looking up from the paperwork before him, and Clara thought briefly how much he resembled her father in demeanor. But her father refused to sit, clearing his throat loudly to force Mr. Newport to look up at him. Mr. Newport's double take would have been almost comical if the situation were not so serious. He first glanced up briefly, his rat-like face angry and disgusted with Clara's father attempt establish seniority. It wasn't until his gaze was once again rooted to the paper that he realized that the two men were not alone in the office. He slowly raised his head, his hard black eyes skimming up Clara's body, meeting her hard gaze and then running back down her curvy form. After about a minute of silence as he stared at the bargaining piece before him, Mr. Newport said in a stunned voice._

_ "Peter, get a chair for Miss…"_

_ "Little," her father replied for her. "Mr. Newport, may I present my daughter, Clara Little." The introduction was said through the biggest smirk known to man. George Little obviously knew he had already won. Charles Newport stood quickly and rushed around the side of his desk, grabbing Clara's hand and kissing it loudly. He came up to her shoulders, and even without the tall heels, she would still have been taller than the short president of Newport Advertising. Only her father's hard elbow in her ribs stopped Clara from pulling her hand away in disgust. As it was, she was forced to leave her hand in his clammy one as he led her to a large loveseat that had just been brought into the office. Sitting down beside her, Mr. Newport gestured absent-mindedly to the original stiff chairs for Clara's father, his eyes never relenting in his visual probing of her body. Her father began to talk about his proposal, though neither Mr. Newport nor Clara was paying attention. The former was too busy studying the woman in front of him and the latter was too busy avoiding his avid stare. Halfway through the proposal Mr. Newport's hands began to wander. Clara first felt the pudgy, clammy hand on the small of her back where she sat ramrod straight, trying to dissuade him through her body language: she would not become his toy, no way, no how. But that didn't stop him. No, on the contrary, it served to make him more excited. Little did Clara know, but her posture accentuated her curvy form in a most appealing way, and Charles Newport was having a hard time retraining himself. From the small of her back, the pressure began to move, creeping around her ribcage, all the while gripping her hand tightly in his. Clara inched away slightly on the leather loveseat, but Mr. Newport moved with her. Soon she was forced up against the arm of the couch and he was becoming bolder with every passing moment. His hand roamed her body, caressing the side of her back and under her arm, while his eyes continued to mentally undress her. As his hand moved farther around the side of her body, a touch that would be classified in any high school as a grope, her face turned from a nervous ashen color to a bright angry red. But her father had finally finished his speech, and Mr. Newport was forced to pause in his conquest to address Mr. Little. _

_ "Anything, my good friend, anything for you," he said readily, and Clara's father's smile broadened. "As long as the girl is included in the deal," he said happily, both hand squeezing tightly in their relative positions. Clara's face turned even redder as she stared at her father, pleading with him._

_ But her father refused to meet her eyes, instead watching the president's greedy grin as he made his reply. "I am sure, Charles, that we can come to an agreement that would be," he paused, glancing briefly to Clara, with a smirk on his face, "mutually beneficial." At that, both men shared a loud guffaw at Clara's expense, and Mr. Newport stood up, dragging Clara with him. Clara's face was a bright red, and the anger that she held in check was close to exploding. As the two men began chatting about trivial events, Clara felt Mr. Newport's hand travel from its position on the small of her back, to the inside of her thigh. That was the last straw for Clara. All the anger and disgust and humiliation she had bottled up inside of her came pouring out in a fiery torrent of rage, and she pulled away from him abruptly, slapping him loudly across the cheek._

_ "You are a disgusting, revolting man!" she cried, pushing him away from her to land in a heap on the loveseat. "Completely and totally abhorrent! You treat women like—like—mindless creatures made solely for _your_ enjoyment. Uggh! And you know, I pity the woman you married and the children you bore. How do they feel, do you think, knowing that they don't even matter to you anymore?" Without waiting for an answer, she spun to her father, looking him over before throwing her hands up in disgust. "And you! I don't even know what to say about you! You're my own _father_, and I think you're disgusting! That you would sell off your only daughter to a sick, perverse man to do only God knows what, just so that you can make this business deal like a stupid, ignorant bargaining chip is revolting. Is that all I am to you, a piece of property to sell to the highest bidder? Well, this isn't the 18__th__ century anymore! Women are allowed to have a mind of their own! I don't belong to you! I'm a legal adult! I don't even have to be here, but I listened to you, trusted you! Well, I'm done. I'm done here in this hellhole of an office, I'm done talking, I'm done with this wretched existence I have, and most importantly, I'm done with _you_, George Little. You aren't my father, and you never have been! The only real parent I ever had was my mother, and she's DEAD!" And on that note, she stormed out the office, slamming the mahogany door shut behind her, and ran out into the street…_

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Clara came back from the memory abruptly, and glanced around, trying to see what had caught her attention. There was no one in the room, but the curtains seemed to be opening themselves. Clara stared, wide-eyed, before figuring they were on a switch, one of those fancy, expensive and useless pieces of machinery all the rich people were buying these days. Clara began blindly fingering the bedside table and the wall behind, looking for the switch. At that moment, something flipped back the covers, and Clara shrieked at the sudden movement. She tried to back away from the 'possessed' sheets, but in doing so, she moved her ankle, and the pain caused her vision to swim. She shuddered, and looked down at the offending limb. The ankle was firmly bound in a large amount of white wrappings, but any movement caused sparks of pain to shoot up the length of her leg. She fell back on her pillow, momentarily forgetting the strangely animated objects and focusing on the pain caused by her snow-bank injury. However, when the wrappings started to unwind themselves, tugging slightly on her ankle, she cried out and tried again to back away. This time, however, there was a pressure on her shoulders, keeping her immobile. Clara started to hyperventilate, sure that she was going insane. At that point, a damp washcloth lifted itself from a bowl on the table and began to run itself over her face. Calming slightly, Clara, assessed her options: either she could stay here and let the currently peaceful animated objects tend to her, or she could try to run. Glancing down at her swaddled ankle and then out the window at the fierce storm still raging, Clara made the most logical choice. Closing her eyes and breathing slowly, she gave in to the objects' ministrations, letting them wash her face and arms, and rewrap her ankle. With that taken care of, a pair of crutches detached themselves from the wall, and made their way over to the side of her bed. Clara began to shake her head, sure that she could not move from the bed, when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a piece of toast floating in midair. She turned her head to look more closely, and found that there was a large breakfast laid out on the table by the fireplace. All misgivings abandoned, Clara sat up, and swung her legs over the side of her bed. She gripped the crutches close to her sides, and though they were obviously made for a much taller person, managed to hobble over to the table. When she reached the chair, it seemed to back away from the table on its own, turning to her to let her sit. She sat gingerly, and the chair scooted loudly back in, bringing her to face the table. Eyeing the food made her stomach growl menacingly, and she giggled before digging in ravenously.

When she was done with her breakfast, and the plate was scraped clean, the chair once again backed from the table and Clara grabbed the crutches, holding them close to herself as she rose from the table. She was about to hobble back to her bed when she felt a tugging sensation on the sleeve of her nightgown. Glancing down she saw that her long-sleeved nightgown seemed to have been gripped by several invisible fingers and was being pulled towards the open door across the room. Surrendering to the insistent breeze, she let the tugging lead her to the adjoining room that revealed itself to be a large, warm bathroom. There stood a large copper tub that must have cost a fortune steaming with hot, scented water. She was helped out of her clothes by the clothes themselves, and sank into the hot tub with a delighted sigh. The breeze gently poured a bucket of the warm water over her hair, and began to scrub a lavender shampoo into her hair. Sighing contentedly, Clara stayed in the bath until her fingers were shriveled and the bath grew cool, at which point she stepped out into a large fluffy towel suspended in midair by the breeze. As strange as it was, and however difficult it was to grasp, Clara was content to let the breeze pull her limping self around, taking care of her. For a girl who had had to care for herself for as long as she could remember, with was pure bliss to let someone else worry about removing the knots from her hair, intensified from her mad dash from the office the night before.

By the time the breeze was finally finished and let the last string drop from her dress, Clara stood before the mirror, marveling at her reflection. Her hair was brushed and blow-dried to perfection, the natural brown curls brushing over the bare skin at the neck of her dress. The knee-length dress itself was a light blue, bringing out the blue of her eyes, and its style was simple, but not understated, a look Clara pulled off with ease and comfort. Although Clara did not usually spend her mornings alone in a such a beautiful dress, something about the magnificent house demanded more formal attire. Satisfied with her appearance despite the bum ankle, Clara opened the door of her room, and hobbled out into the dim hallway, intent on exploring the house…

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Thank you for all your comments, as you can see, I listened =] word to the wise, if you want me to include something or change something, you have to ask me! I can't read your mind. I love input, and though I wont necessarily use it in the story (I might though...) it gets me thinking, and you might see traces of your ideas in the story...my point, please review!

**savethemadscientist: **Its gotten to the point where i look forward to your reviews after i submit a chapter =] thanks so much for your comment. and yes, that brief moment of kindness on nathaniel's part was intentional. a glimpse into what could be, i suppose. Hope I answered your question about the meeting in the office. I'm not so good at writing scenes like that, but i did my best. hopefully it was enough... thanks again!

**MJ:** Thank you! yes, you were the second to request that (points upwards) scene. As I told savethemadscientist, I'm not so good at writing scenes like that, but i did my best. hopefully it was good enough. I'm glad you didn't think Nathaniel was out of character. that really is my greatest fear when writing. so often i want the story to go one way or another, and its hard to make that happen when a character's personality is so completely against what i want them to do. And all will be revealed about the wind, have no fear...if you look back to the end of a rotten xmas, there's comment that i did not address that hints as to what the wind is from. virtual cookie if you guess correctly. =] anyways, thanks again.

**MertleYuts: **thank you for your review. to be told that you like my writing style means so much to me. as for the originality of the story, i will do my best, although it wont be entirely without influences...thanks again!

There, i think that's everyone for the last chapter (only three, kinda sad). Come on guys, pretty please with a cherry on top? Even if you don't, I'll still love you guys (i guess...), but review anyway please!

A-N


	6. A Library Confrontation

_**A/N:**__ Hi all! Sorry about the wait. Vacation was wonderful, though =] So, about this chapter: so far, I've only had narrations from Clara's or Nathaniel's points of view (loosely) but in this chapter, I'm going to start expanding my narration base, if that phrase makes any sense whatsoever…anyways, enjoy!_

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Chapter 5: A Library Confrontation

Clara had explored the majority of the house by the time she reached the wide double doors on the third floor. Curious as to what the majestic doors hid from the hallway, she tried the handle. It was sticky with rust, but it turned slowly and the door creaked open. Inside was the largest library she had seen in one house at a time. The bookcases reached from floor to ceiling, and there were hundreds of books crammed in their every nook and cranny. Clara stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind her. Making her way through the dark room to the large curtained window, her crutch caught on a book lying open on the floor, and she nearly tripped. Clara righted herself, but not before a small table in front of her clattered to the ground. Wincing, she bent over and set it upright once more. Mentally scolding herself for being so careless, she limped slowly to the window and yanked the curtain open. The pale light streamed in through the dusty windows and Clara watched briefly as the snow swirled outside, rendering the entire landscape a monotone grey. Turning away from the window, she gazed around the bright room.

There was a large fireplace on one wall ringed with more shelves, with the ashes of a fire long extinguished still lying in the grate. There were more bookcases than Clara had initially thought, and as she approached the nearest shelf, she saw that all the books were coated in a thick layer of dust. She slowly ran her eyes over the many novels, but the old spines revealed few books that Clara recognized, and several were in languages Clara didn't even recognize. Eventually, she came across _Wuthering Heights_, a book that she had read many times over during her childhood. She had tried to read _Persuasion _and _Emma, _but had found their stories of true love and happily-ever-after to be inconsistent with her cynical view of love. But she did enjoy _Wuthering Heights._ While it recounted perhaps the most passionate love ever documented in literature, its dark nature and lack of a happy ending appealed to Clara. She pulled the book off the shelf, marking its place in the library with an empty, worn out pen she found lying on the ground, and made her way over to the cold fireplace. The gloomy atmosphere seemed to agree with her melancholy attitude. Brushing the dust off the book, she propped her crutches against the wall next to the fireplace, and settled in one of the large wing backed armchairs to read. She had just reached the end of Lockwood's first visit (1) when she felt another presence in the room, and she glanced around. Abruptly, her roaming gaze stopped as her eyes took in the large, animal like form silhouetted against the open door.

She gave a startled yelp, and stood up quickly, attempting to back away from the monstrous form. However, in her fright, she had forgotten the condition of her ankle, and when she made to back away, it crumpled beneath her, and she fell to the floor, whimpering in pain. Suddenly, large, hairy arms lifted behind her neck and under her knees, and set her back in the large chair. Relinquishing his hold on her, the creature backed away slowly before stopping in the half-light beside the fireplace. The two stared at each other for several moments, taking in each other's appearances. He stood about seven feet tall, and was covered in a thick layer of brown fur. Despite its matted state, Clara was sure that it would be incredibly soft, and her hands felt a curious ache to touch it. His hands and feet were almost human in their appearance, with the exception of course of the inch long claws that curled from his paws. He was wearing a large black tee shirt and a pair of enormous grey sweatpants, presumably, the only clothing items that fit his large body. Her eyes continued to travel upwards to rest on his face. Even more menacing than his size or his claws, he had a short, feline snout with a thick mass of hair running around his neck, reminding Clara of a lion's mane. Small horns adorned the top of his head, but it was his eyes that caught Clara's attention and held it. She had expected them to fit the animal-like appearance of the rest of his body: beady black like a rat, or a cat-like slit. However, they were undeniably and shockingly human in their appearance. Slate-grey and clear as glass, they seemed to bore into her very soul as they stared at each other from across the room. Clara's focus remained locked with his stare for several moments before she wrenched her gaze away, summoning her courage to speak.

"Wha- who are you?" her voice was barely louder than a whisper, and she could barely hear herself. She made to repeat herself, but just as she began to open her mouth, the creature replied, his voice low and hoarse.

"I am the owner of this house. I was…" He started to continue, but then stopped, his head jerking up. A startled, apprehensive look in his eyes flashed briefly before being replaced with an angry light. He snarled,

"You will leave as soon as the storm allows." And with that he turned from her, and stormed out the door. Clara sat in shock for several minutes after he left, unable to think or process anything.

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(1) A point about five to ten minutes into the novel, depending on how fast you read…

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They watched as he paced the floor of the attic, the creaks and moans of the old wood growing more pronounced with each circuit. The light from the half closed curtain behind him illuminated the room with a menacing glow, accentuated by the low growls emitted by the Beast. They stood in the doorway, wringing their hands, wracking their brains for ways to help. There is only so much that one can do disembodied and invisible. They had tried to help him, tried to overcome the enchantress' trickery in hiding the house to the rest of the world by forcing him to come out of the attic and rescue the girl. They had been kind her when she woke up, aiding her in her preparation for the day. But they could not offer advice, explanations (or admonitions in the case of the Beast).

At the moment, the Beast was wearing a hole in the floorboards from his angry pacing to and fro across the room. Every so often, he would stop, cocking his head as though deep in thought, before snarling deep in his throat, a thick, menacing sound that would have sent the servants running if they had been human once more. At last summoning their courage, the servants floated across the room—the way a breeze would flow if it had a mind of its own—and attempted to appease their master with a chair, a book, some toast they had brought with them, anything to end his frantic pacing. With a low roar and a sweeping paw that sent the porcelain plate bearing the break smashing against the wall, the Beast out of the room, sweeping further into the recesses of the attic, and shutting the door to the adjoining room behind him. The servants waited there for several moments before throwing their—invisible—hands up in defeat, and turning to leave. Throwing one last look at the slowly wilting rose suspended in its glass dome in the corner of the room, placed on a small table which was the only piece of furniture that remained intact, the servants passed through the door way and into the hall. But just as they floated into the hall, the sight before them stopped them with they hung suspended in the air. Making her way slowly, painstakingly up the long flight of stairs with one crutch under her arm and her other hand grasping the railing to pull herself onward, was the girl.

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_**A/N: **__So hoped you guys liked it! Sorry for the mini-cliffy, but I can't have you guys running out of interest in my story. =[ the more I think about that, the less I am inclined to write…so review, tell me you love it, hate it, want more, whatever, I'll take anything (and yes, I am begging…)_

_As to my loyal reviewers, I love you all, and I would spend the next half an hour replying to you messages and shouting your praises to the clouds, but as I am unsure of what I have responded to and what I haven't, and as I am also sure (or at least I hope) you all would rather me post sooner than write a lengthy I 3 U note, I'm just going to post this, and hope you all don't mind. Thanks, and love you lots, _

_A-N_

_PS. Oh, and it just occurred to me, my signature, A-N looks a lot like my abbreviation for Author's Note, but its not. A-N is short for Adele Noelle =P anyway, I'm kinda spastic this late at night…_


	7. Get Out

**A/N: **Hey All! Soooo sorry it took me so long! I don't like making excuses, but this time they are actually valid. Well one of them is. I was at camp. Thats the valid one. And I really didn't want to write this scene, as the creative juices weren't flowing. Invalid. oh well, here it is, hope you like it and don't mind any strange occurrences or inconsistencies/ out of character-ness. not to be complaining, but this was a really difficult chapter to write. then again, maybe if there's something that bugged you, you'll message me about it... just maybe. Well, that's all for now; enjoy! =]

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**Chapter 6: Get. Out.**

Thunk, thunk. Her crutch made a loud thump as she pushed and pulled her way up the steep staircase. She held one crutch under her arm and the railing with her other hand, attempting to keep her weight off her bad ankle. After ten minutes worth of exertion, she made it to the shadowy landing, where she stopped to regain her breath. The landing was barely lit by the one dim light bulb in the ceiling above her, and the shadows gave the place an eerie, foreboding look. At last, Clara turned to the doorway that was her final destination, the doorway into which the Beast had disappeared. No light shone through the door, and the room within was even darker than the barely lit landing. Summoning her courage, Clara limped forward and pushed the old door further open with a loud creak. She made to slip into the room, but at that moment, the mysterious breeze appeared once more, plucking at the cloth at her back, trying to pull her away from the door. However, Clara was not to be dissuaded, and she pushed herself free of the breeze, stepping cautiously into the room.

Clara could tell the room had once been a place of great beauty. The scraps of furniture lying around the musty room were all intricately carved and engraved. The scraps of curtains hanging from the dirty windows were finely embroidered, and Clara could see the remnants of a gold trimmed chandelier that had once hung from the tall ceiling. There was a dusty four-poster bed on one side of the room, but the mattress and pillows had been torn to shreds and white feathers blanketed the bed and the surrounding floor like new-fallen snow.

Clara turned again, taking in more of the dim room as her eyes adjusted to the gloominess. Her eyes skimmed over the broken remains of a mahogany dresser, and finally fell on a pink sort of glow coming from behind a dark curtain on the other side of the room. She tiptoed over to the curtain, and with a wary hand, pulled on the fabric. The curtain opened to reveal a smaller room that adjoined the larger bedchamber, and in the center of the round windowed room stood a small, round table. The table was trimmed in gold, and the legs were curled and carved, so thin and delicate the table seemed to float above the ground. There was a small hand mirror on the floor beside the table, but Clara barely registered its presence. No, it was what sat on the small table that held Clara's rapt attention. Underneath a thin glass dome floated a pinkish red rose the size of Clara's fist, suspended in full bloom with a long green stem adorned with three wickedly sharp thorns. Beneath the floating flower, lying abandoned on the table under the dome was a lone petal, curled to perfection, sitting face up on the table. The rose glowed with a pinkish light in the dimly lit alcove, and as though in a trance, Clara moved toward the table, one hand reaching up to the top of the dome where a glass knob served as a slight handle. Her hand hovered over the top of the dome, and she was about to grasp the glass and pull it away, when she heard a muffled step behind her.

ARRRGGG! A furred paw tore through the air in front of her, slamming painfully into her chest, knocking her back several feet to land in a pile on the floor in the larger room. She looked up, and saw the shadowy form of the beast towering over her. A low growl emitted continuously from his throat, and Clara shrank back in fear from his cold steel eyes that glared piercingly into her own. When he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but the anger and hatred was so ripe in his voice that it chilled Clara to the bone.

"Get. Out."

Clara did not have to be told twice, scrambling to her feet and grabbing her crutches, she hobbled and shuffled her way out of the room, practically falling down the stairs in her haste. The Beast did not call after her, and no more sound came from the dark room, but Clara felt as though the cold grey eyes still bored into her with the same hatred and menace as they had when he stood over her. Not even bothering to grab her old clothes from her room, Clara limped straight to the front hall. Wrenching the large wooden door open with a hideous screech, she ran as fast as her ankle would allow out onto the porch, slamming the door behind her. The landscape before her was white with two feet of snow, and more of the icy mix continued to pelt from the sky, obscuring Clara's vision past two feet in front of her. Taking a deep breath of icy air, she trundled out into the snow, straining to keep her crutches moving with the rest of her body. The going was slow, and Clara had not made it five feet before she regretted not taking a coat on her way out the door. However, her stubborn side kicked in, and she refused to turn around, instead forcing herself forward, blocking her mind from the bone numbing cold and sharp pain each time her good foot hit stepped into the thick snow. Only her ankle felt better than it had back in the mansion, the snow serving as a continual ice pack, numbing the pain. Clara continued in this manner—wrenching her crutches forward into the snow, and then swinging her body up and over the snow bank to land a foot farther than before—until the seconds seemed to take an age and the minutes passed like hours…

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Nathaniel was scared. Never before had he been so terrified in his life. If she had ruined the rose, he would have been trapped in his beastly form forever. As his breathing slowed, and the adrenaline left his brain, he thought back to his encounter with the girl, and for the first time in his life felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he didn't need to be so hard on her, he thought. After all, she was rather pretty when she wasn't so terrified. Perhaps he should go apologize to her, he thought briefly before immediately dismissing the idea. Apologies were for the weak, or so his father had always told him. No, he would continue on as before, and hope her ankle healed itself soon, so he could be left to wallow in self-pity. He was about to shut the curtain on the glass-covered rose, when a spot of blue outside caught his eye. The girl had been wearing a blue dress, he thought absently, before turning away. He was halfway across the room, when he stopped in his tracks. A blue dress? Oh no, not again, he thought, running hurriedly back to the window. He pressed his face against the windowpane, but jumped back and swiped his hand on the glass when his breath made the window fog up. He had not been mistaken. There, several feet below him, was the thin form of the girl, trudging through the snow down the sidewalk. He watched in horror as one of her crutches became locked in the snow, and she toppled sideways against the building before sliding slowly down the wall to curl in a fetal position on the ground, her strength leaving her at last. A low growl sounded from his throat, and Nathaniel threw himself out of the room and down the stairs, pausing only briefly to grab his enormous scarlet cloak before he rushed out the door. It was as though fate had decided to play a mind trick on Nathaniel, and the sense of déjà vu was so strong he had to force himself onwards, clearing his mind with a rough shake of his head. The snow was much thicker now compared to the night before, and even Nathaniel in his animalistic form had difficulty trudging through the snow. Nevertheless, he made it to the bit of wall where Clara sat curled into herself to preserve her warmth. Glancing at her for a moment, Nathaniel bent down and scooped her up in his arms, abandoning the obstinate crutches in favor of returning the girl to the warmth of the house. Nathaniel did not know the words that came from his mouth, but had Clara been awake, she would have heard, in a low, gruff voice, the words, "Hang in there," "Don't leave me just yet" and "Stay with me, love."

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Clara had been losing her strength fast. Every tug of the crutches became more difficult and with every swing of her body, it seemed to Clara's cold-numbed mind that she gained five pounds in doing so. When at last the crutch refused to be yanked from the snow, the last vestiges of her strength left her, and she collapsed against the wall of the building, sliding down to the ground. With a whimper of pain, she pulled her knees up to her chin, and sat in the cold, damp snow, shuddering with shivers and the occasional sob. The longer she sat there, the less logical her train of thought became until she was sure that the icy wind pelting against her face was the icy tail of a wolf pacing in front of her, preparing itself for its easiest meal. When one of her crutches fell and slammed into her knees before sliding, scraping her shins, to the floor, she was sure that it was the teeth of another wolf getting its first taste of her blood. With ever passing moment, her imagination became more and more creative, until there was an entire pack of man-eating wolves and saber-tooth tigers—never mind that they were extinct—growling menacingly in front of her, fighting over who got which part of her body. At this point, however, she was jostled and pulled into something large and warm that banished in a single moment all the enormous predators trying to devour her. With the threat gone, she snuggled into the warmth, desperate to thaw out every inch of her nearly frostbite body. After what seemed like only moments, she was hit with a huge rush of warm air, and a loud bang brought her slightly to her senses. When she glimpsed the large fireplace and velvety couch sitting at attention facing it, which seemed to be her destination, she remembered suddenly, _the mansion,_ before loosing consciousness like the switch of a light. Her last coherent memory was of grasping her savior's shirt tightly in her numb hands and snuggling farther into his long, musky-scented fur, but at that point, Clara blacked out.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you liked it! I'm back in a slightly strict routine, so the next chapters should come out quicker! sorry! please Review! I know I've dropped the ball on the whole updating thing, but please please, and I'm begging here, please review! trust me, guilt trip is your best weapon at this point! Thanks!

**Westhaven18:** Sorry Sorry Sorry! gosh, I seem to be saying that a lot! No, I'm not abandoning this story, and I hope you're around to read the updates! hope you enjoyed this chapter, there will be more on the way!

To all my other reviewers, shame on you! I didn't get a single review of last chapter. It wasn't that bad, was it? Okay, maybe I'm not one to talk, but still, you've stuck with me this far, please-y please don't abandon me now, and I won't abandon you, I promise!

Anyways, main message here, Please review!

xoxo A-N


	8. For Some Inexplicable Reason

**A/N:Ok, so the response to my last update was pitiful! An in non-existant!** So I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and believe that maybe the reason for that is either a) you're all dead, in which case, I'm sorry for bugging you b) you're bored with the story, which is sad, but a fact of life which I'm gonna have to get over or c) you're all LAZY! and not reviewing because it's too much trouble. If the last is the case, SHAME ON YOU! I told you I wasn't gonna drop the ball this time, so I'd thank you not to do the same! so this time around, if you're reading the story, review! is it too much to ask? just write 'love it, more please' or 'hate it, stop bugging me' but give me something here ! **PLEASE! **Thats all for now. Enjoy!

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Chapter 7: For Some Inexplicable Reason

Nathaniel stood by the fireplace, cradling her princess-style in his arms, with absolutely no idea what to do next. He had tried to set her down on the couch—he had had enough interactions with the girl for his liking, she confused him too much—but she refused to let go. Even in her unconscious state, her small hands gripped his tee shirt as though it was the only thing keeping her from slipping away into darkness. He had tried to shift her position and pry her hands free of his shirt, but no matter which way he moved her, he never had a free hand. So he just stood there, at a loss for what to do next, until a gentle tap on his arm alerted him to his invisible servants' presence. The invisible hand grabbed a corner of his shirt and pulled, and he was forced closer to the couch, at which point he growled,

"I already tried that! She wont let go!" but it seemed the servants had something else in mind as they turned him slowly and pushed him backwards with a considerable amount of strength. As a man they could have knocked him over, but as a beast he only momentarily lost his balance. However, it was enough for him to understand what they were trying to do. "No, no, no, no!" he exclaimed, his voice gravely and low, "I will not cuddl—ahhhh" they pushed again, and caught unawares, he toppled back into the couch.

He growled again, and made to get up, but the girl in his arms stirred, muttering something, and snuggled closer into his chest. He stopped his movements, looking down at the girl curled contentedly on his lap. She looked so peaceful in her sleep, eyes closed, her breathing light and slow. With a sigh, he let himself go, and turned himself sideways on the couch, propping his legs up on the armrest on one side and his head on the other. She murmured again and cuddled closer, pressing her legs to his side, and tucking her head beneath his chin. It was a foreign concept to Nathaniel, snuggling with a girl without even making out with her, but with his beastly snout and three-inch fangs, he realized that anything beyond cuddling was most certainly out of the picture. So he let himself relax slowly, breathing in her light flowery scent and closing his eyes.

He was just drifting off when a thought startled him into full consciousness. Nathaniel realized with trepidation that he had never been more comfortable, more content, more at peace than at that moment. He snorted lightly, and shut off that train of thought, not liking the sensitive place that it was taking him. Blocking out all other thoughts than his rough, raspy breathing, he finally let himself succumb to sleep.

* * *

Clara blinked the sleep from her eyes, trying to orient herself to her surroundings. The room was too drafty to be her bed at home, and her pillow kept rising and falling as though it was breathing. Breathing! Clara forced her eyes fully open, but her vision was obscured by something very large and grey. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight around her waist kept her pinned in place. She couldn't turn her head because of her position, so she let her senses explore. Whatever she was lying on was enormous; her curled form was dwarfed by its size. The material was soft under her hand, and felt remarkably like a cotton shirt. Her ears picked up a heavy rasping sound whenever her pillow inflated that almost reminded her of her father's snore, except it was softer and less aggravating.

Most of all, Clara noticed the smell. With her nose buried in the cotton fabric, Clara could smell the fresh scent of laundry detergent combined with a musky, earthy smell that reminded her of a forest or the air after a heavy rain. It was a good smell, she decided, and not to overbearing. Her last boyfriend had worn so much _Old Spice_ that his clothes had to go through the wash twice, sometime three times, before they stopped reeking.

Clara shook away her thoughts, refusing to allow herself to dwell on that awful man. Instead, she focused on the large form next to her. She was tucked into its—no, his, she decided—side, and her feet were entangled in a thick material that reminded her of heavy sweatpants. She still couldn't pin down where she was, or what she was doing pinned into this man's side, when he shifted to his side, facing her, and his arm around her waist pulled her closer into his chest. It was at that point that she felt the coarse hair that covered his arm and the heavy muzzle-like jaw that rested against the top of her head. Feeling his fur, all her memories came flooding back, and she realized where she was. _I'm in the main hall on that velvety couch in front of the fireplace, aren't I?_ She wondered, but her next thought stopped all contemplation about her location. _I'm nestled in the Beast's arms!_ At that thought she struggled, trying to push her way out of his arms and release his hold on her. But either he was asleep and impervious to her struggles, or he was simply ignoring them, because the Beast refused to move his tight grip on her, and she was forced to give in to his strength.

She lay there in his arms, silently seething, waiting for him to wake up so she could give him a piece of her mind, when something occurred to her. He had told her to get out, right? He had told her to leave. If he obviously hated her so much, why did he bring her back in from the cold, and more importantly, why was he cuddling with her on the couch? All these thoughts raced chaotically around her mind, as she lay warm but confused in the Beast's arms.

* * *

He stirred, groggily shaking his head in an attempt to knock the sleep from his eyes. Blearily, Nathaniel looked around him, taking in the burnt out fireplace and the sun streaming in the window. It seemed that the storm had finally stopped. He looked everywhere but at _her_, knowing that she was awake, and not wanting to face her anger just yet. His plan was ruined when she gave a polite, sarcastic little cough, and he was forced to meet his eyes. Yep, he had been right. The anger was there in her eyes, but there was another emotion he couldn't quite pin down. Confusion? Yes that was it, she was confused, and rightfully so. After all, he had roared at her last night, and to all appearances, it would seem that he hated her. But that didn't explain their current positions. He hoped she wouldn't ask, as he couldn't really explain it himself. But of course, the first thing she said after he scrambled off the couch was, "Why were you holding me?"

He admired her for her bluntness. He hated women who tried to skirt the issue at hand, not strong enough to face their problem without wavering. But the girl was different from the other women he knew; he had seen that from the beginning. She was strong and independent. She was sure of herself, something he hadn't seen in a woman in his entire life. And he admired her for it. Sure, it intimidated him considerably, but not enough to scare him off. Reaching up and scratching the back of his neck with one furred hand, he coughed, and fidgeted, trying to summon the correct words to express why they had been asleep on the couch together. It was at that point that he realized that he himself was acting like one of the loose, insecure women that he hated. Forcing himself to look her in the eyes, he gave his answer in a strong voice.

"I brought you in from outside. Why you were out in the cold I will never understand, but there you have it. I was going to leave you on the couch, but, um…" cough, "you, um, wouldn't let go, so I—"

"So you're saying that it was my fault?" she exclaimed fiercely, pushing herself painfully up off the couch. She limped up to him and poked him in the chest as she continued, "May I remind you that I was the unconscious one in the situation?"

He stepped back slightly, but forced himself to remain calm. "Only because you decided it would be a good idea to go get yourself killed in the middle of a blizzard!" he said, with and teasing tone in his voice. However, she would have none of it.

"_You_," here she poked him again, "were the one who told me to get out, so technically _you _were the reason I was out in the blizzard."

His eyes opened wide and he spluttered incomprehensibly for a moment before he regained his vocal coherency. "I told you to get out of the room. My private room! I'm not so cold hearted as to kick you out of the house altogether!"

"Oh yeah?" she replied. "Forgive me if I don't believe you!"

"I mean it!" he responded, exasperated at her stubbornness. "I was merely asking you to—"

"Asking?" she spluttered, "Asking? You call that, that _bellowing_ asking?"

Seeing that explaining himself was going to get him nowhere, Nathaniel was about to leave when he thought he saw out of the corner of his eye, something shiny on her cheek. Turning completely to face her, he ducked his head to her level, and realized that the shininess was in fact a tear rolling down her cheek. She sniffed and turned away sharply, roughly dragging her sleeve against her face.

"Something in my eye…" she muttered softly, but Nathaniel heard and smirked, letting a quiet chuckle escape his lips.

"I wasn't born yesterday," he said with a smile, and taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned her face towards him. "What's wrong?" he said softly. Something inside of him pained to see her so sad. "Why are you crying?"

She sniffed again, and looked down at her feet before bringing her eyes up to meet his. "All my father ever did was bellow at me. He used to say that all the time, whenever I interrupted him on a business call, or even when he was just working in his office. 'Get out' he would yell, his voice chasing me out of the door. When you—" At this point her voice caught and she couldn't go on, just started shaking her head slightly, a movement that could almost be mistaken for a twitch. Nathaniel stared at her in horror. He hadn't known, but still! Uggh! He wanted to hit himself. Then again, never before had he had to watch what he said around women, never before had he cared how his words affected them. But somehow, for some inexplicable reason, with the small, fragile, broken girl in front of him, he did care. For her, he would destroy everything bad in the world, just so she would never be sad again.

The strength of his emotions shook him to the core, and he made to leave the room again—he needed air, needed room to breathe—when a small sob from the girl stopped him. She was crying again, and no matter how messed up his thoughts were, no matter how confused his heart, he couldn't leave her now. So he took her by the hands, and led her to the couch, where he sat next to her, and tentatively wrapped a furred arm around her shoulders. He needn't have worried. At his hesitant touch, she melted into him, letting her tears run out onto his shirt in an endless stream.

When her sobbing had stopped, he squeezed her tightly to him once more, and then stood up, pulling her with him. She stood carefully, leaning on him to balance herself on one leg, the other still suspended in the air, useless due to her sprained ankle. _The crutches!_ He thought, mentally hitting himself on the head. With the new layer of snow, they would be impossible to find outside. He weighed his options, and looking down at her, picked the simplest one. Reaching down, he quickly scooped her up into his arms and proceeded to walk out of the front room into the kitchen. At first, she squealed, exclaiming, "Put me down!" and "What are you doing?" but he refused to let her go, and instead replied,

"Well, you can't walk, and I left your crutches outside, in favor of getting you inside, and I don't really want to have breakfast in this drafty room, so the most logical solution? Carry you. Hope you don't mind." She didn't respond, but instead leaned her head on his chest, a movement he took to mean, "No, I don't mind."

They reached the kitchen, and he set her gently in one of the enormous chairs by the merrily burning fireplace. Walking over to the doorway, he rang the bell that hung from the wall.

"You still use those things?" She asked incredulously and not without a little disgust.

He turned back to her, and replied with an ironic smile, "Not usually, but when all your servants have either left or turned invisible, then you can tell me the most effective way of finding them. As is…" he trailed off, feeling the familiar tug on his sleeve that told him that his servants were present. His face lit up in a smile—a toothless one, because he knew his fangs would scare the most courageous of people—and he turned to the girl. She was, however, not facing him, but rather staring off into the fire, unconscious of the world around her. He started to get her attention, when he realized that he hadn't even asked her name. _Well that should be remedied, _he thought, and said,

"I don't think I ever asked your name." she started and turned towards him with a perplexed look on her face.

"Oh, it's Clara," she responded, then continued, "And I don't think I ever asked yours…"

"I'm Na—" he stopped, and then continued softly, "You had better call me Beast." He looked up from the floor where he had been staring when she didn't respond immediately, to meet her eyes. There was no pity or sadness in her expression, merely happiness and a little ironic humor that expressed itself in the quirk of her mouth. At her smile, his melancholy mood dissipated, and he grinned, asking,

"Now, what would you like for breakfast?"

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**A/N: **ok, so in case you didn't read my note, I was righteously pissed by the response on the last chapter. So please, do yourselves a favor, and review! I don't have to post this! I've got it all written down in my head, and it's for you that I try to post every day. So if you want me to keep posting, TELL ME! Please!

Thanks for reading,

A-N


	9. Getting to Know You

**A/N: So maybe I was a little bit harsh last time I posted **(understatement of the year)**. I really do love you guys, and I am incredibly thankful for all your reviews, and trust me I'm not just saying this because I want more. Really, I'm not. I'm saying this because I am sorry at the way I exploded last time, and I know how it is to like a story, but simply not have time to review. Believe me, I (unfortunately) feel that all the time. I only exploded because I was frustrated and insecure, and I apologize immensely for taking it all out on you guys, my lovely readers. So please accept my apology and enjoy my newest update!**

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**Chapter 8: Getting to Know You**

Over the next few days, Nathaniel and Clara's friendship blossomed. That's not to say there weren't hitches along the way, for example, when Clara caught Nathaniel staring at her for too long one day when she was bent over arranging some books on a bottom shelf in the library, or whenever Clara went a little too far in teasing Nathaniel about matted nature of his hair or the dirtiness of his claws, but in general, they got along pretty well. Nathaniel would always have a hard time opening up to Clara when she started asking him about his past, and Clara was sometimes hard put to look past the prejudices she formed on her first day in the mansion, but as long as their conversation never strayed to the dark room on the third floor or least of all the pinkish, otherworldly rose that was kept there, their friendship grew steadily, strengthening with every day Clara spent in the old house.

Unfortunately, due to Clara's hurt ankle, it was impossible for them to go outside in the snow, a fact that Clara moaned about at least three times every day. However, there was nothing they could do about the situation other than wait, and wait they did. Before they even realized it, three days of laughter and labor passed right before their very eyes, as it became Clara's mission to have the whole house—with the exception of the room on the third floor, of course—cleaned and cobweb-free before New Year's Eve. Clara and Nathaniel had agreed to hold a grand ball for the two of them and celebrate the coming of a better, brighter year, and they were both looking forward to it, although neither could exactly say why…

* * *

New Year's Eve dawned bright and clear. Sunlight glinted off the snow, dazzling Clara's eyes as she gazed out the enormous windows in her room. Sliding out of bed, she gingerly tried resting her weight on her sprained ankle before she got up. A dull pain coursed through her unbound foot, but when the wrappings wound themselves around her leg with the aid of another invisible servant, Clara found to her extreme joy that she could at last walk on her own. It seemed that the magic of the house helped to speed along her recovery, for she had been unable to put any weight on the ankle only four days earlier. Walking carefully over to the closet, she pulled out a long pink and red dress that accented her creamy complexion, and slipped it over her head. She stood in front of the mirror, head cocked to one side, assessing her reflection. She debated whether or not to do anything with her hair, and finally decided against it, brushing the tangles out quickly and leaving it down loose. She was walking over to the door when a loud knock sounded, startling her. Had she not been accustomed to his roughness, the heaviness of the Beast's knock might have frightened her, but as she was used to his nearly violent tendencies, she smiled brightly and moved more quickly towards the door, pulling it open. The Beast stood before her in a thick shirt and black khakis that could have fit at least two men inside, smiling widely. He had abandoned all qualms of smiling with his teeth, and while the Beast's grim was certainly the most menacing smile Clara had ever seen, it was still a smile, and she welcomed it. She smiled up at him for a few moments more before breaking the silence.

"Look! I can walk on my own now," she said, extending her tightly wrapped ankle for his inspection. Every morning began with the same routine. She would open the door, smiling broadly, before exclaiming 'Look!' and pointing out something new and improved about her ankle. The morning before she had shown him the small cane that was the only support she needed to walk around with, abandoning the crutches with disgust. The Beast had found them in the snow after half an hour of searching when she refused to be carried from room to room like a child. In keeping with the routine, he bent down and examined the proffered object, giving a 'humph, not bad,' before straightening with a grin and stepping slightly away from the door to allow her to exit the room.

"What shall we do today?" he asked, and Clara knew he was expecting more tedious tasks of dusting the library or restoring the front hall to its formerly glorious appearance. However, Clara had another pastime in mind, and smiled widely up at him.

"What say you to a large snowball war?" He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her. There was silence for several seconds while he processed her last sentence, before he summoned his voice once more.

"You mean a snowball fight?" he said nervously, obviously never having participated in a snowball war before, and rather sacred of the whole idea. Clara raised her eyebrows slightly, before smiling evilly and advancing on him.

"What, you're not scared, are you?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"N-no! Of course not," he replied quickly, composing himself and grinning back at her. "Well," he continued, "not for myself at least."

"What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.

He adopted a tone of falsely sincere sympathy, "Well, you can only _hobble_ so fast on that ankle, so I will easily pummel you. Are you sure you want to go through with this? I would accept your surrender now, as you are destined for defeat…"

Clara raised one eyebrow, saying cryptically, "We'll see about that…" and with a merry cackle, she turned on her heel and walked confidently down the stairs, her limp barely even noticeable. However, at that minute she realized that she was still wearing her indoor slippers, and was forced to turn back around, forcing the words through firmly clenched teeth, "Would you care to tell me where I might find a coat and boots?"

Recognizing her struggle, the Beast grinned widely, and walked slowly up to her, answering softly, "No." before running past her, leaving her in the proverbial dust behind him—for due to Clara, there was not a speck of dust to be found in the house—shouting at his rapidly disappearing back,

"You're going to pay for teasing me so, Mister!"

* * *

Wham! Yet another icy snowball hit him directly on the muzzle, sending him staggering back into the snow behind him.

"Oh, sorry! I didn't hurt you did I?" came Clara's voice from across the war zone as another snowball came flying through the air, narrowly missing his head.

"Taunting her was a _bad bad_ idea," he thought, as he dodged the bullets. If this was Clara with a sprained ankle, he would be helpless against her with a healthy one. _You're already helpless,_ said an annoying, nagging voice in the back of his head. He snarled at the thought, and assessed his options. Under the circumstances, the one that seemed most logical to him was _Retreat!_ but he knew that if he gave in to that self-preserving impulse he'd never live it down. Another option was to return fire, but he had already found that his enormous arms were not built to throwing things, and thus his aim had been disgraceful. This option he also scratched off his list. That left him with one unfortunate alternative, but as he thought about his more and more—still dodging fire from Clara—the idea didn't seem so bad after all. He grinned wickedly, before putting his plan to action.

* * *

Oh, she was going to give him so much grief about this fight, Clara thought, and then laughed. No, not a fight, a massacre. And yes, she had got him back for teasing her and then some. She had just used up all her ammunition, and was in the process of creating more snowballs when she heard a soft footstep behind her. Standing up and spinning around in the snow as fast as her ankle would allow, she was met with the single most terrifying sight of her short life.

Standing in front of her was the Beast with an enormous snowball in his arms and an evil smile on his face. He opened his mouth to give a battle cry and dump the snowball all over Clara, when a small, compact throw hit him square on the nose. His arms, which were raised above his head, suddenly gave way, and the snowball crashed down on his own head, covering him from top to toe with cold, wet snow. He stared at her, and she returned his stare until the twitching of her mouth became too much to suppress, and she burst out laughing, her gleeful giggles echoing down the silent street.

However, with tears running down her cheeks, Clara was not watching when the Beast sprang forward with an almighty cry of "Geronimo!" and all three hundred pounds of furry wet, massive Beast swept Clara off her feet and landed her two feet deep in a snow drift. Of course, she brought him down with him, and they spent nearly two minutes tumbling around in the snow before their strength left them and they lay there, wet, panting and the oddest combination of freezing cold and sweating either of them had ever experienced. How long they lay there, neither could say, but they soon decided that the cold was just too cold, and the Beast helped Clara to her feet as together they stumbled inside. There was a change of clothes for both of them lying by the fireplace, and the thoughtfulness of the servants' gesture brought tears to Clara's eyes. She ducked into the bathroom to change and when she came out, the Beast was dressed in a soft tee shirt and a new pair of sweats, staring into the fire. She hobbled over next to him, and sat down directly in front of the fire, before looking up at the Beast. He was close enough to the fire to be slightly steaming as his hair dried, and Clara thought it looked like a good idea. Turning around so that her back was to the fire, she ran her fingers slowly through her hair, letting the heat from the fire help to dry her wet curls.

After ten minutes of this treatment in silence, her hair was dry, and she glanced up at the Beast standing beside her, frozen staring off into space. What he was thinking, she couldn't guess, but she could tell it brought some pain to him, so she reached up and tugged slightly on the bottom of his sweats. He stirred and looked down into her questioning gaze, but he merely smiled slightly in response. She glanced beside her and patted the rug, asking silently for him to join her on the floor, and he complied wordlessly, sinking down with unusual grace to sit beside her. His fur was warm and dry by that point, and Clara moved over slightly so that she could lean her head against his shoulder. She could feel him tense at first, but after a moment he relaxed, slipping an arm behind her so she could better lean against him. They stayed in that position, immobile, gazing into the fire, until the small ring of the bell alerted them to the servants' presence. Not expecting to be interrupted, Clara looked up at the Beast.

"What do they—" she started curiously, but he cut her off.

"If you really want this ball you've set up to happen, you should go get ready," he said softly, "It's getting to be close to dinner time…" At which point, Clara stood up quickly, wincing slightly as she remembered belatedly about her sore ankle. She noticed his concerned look, and tried to divert his attention,

"Oh God! What time is it?" But he would not be dissuaded.

"Are you sure that ankle of yours is strong enough to dance on?" he asked, looking up at her from his place on the floor.

"Yes, of course," she said dismissively, and then continued on a different note, "Well I am going to change. I'll meet you back down here at eight."

"Better make that eight-thirty," he said, "Its already seven-fifteen."

She gave a small yelp, and hurried from the room, calling behind her, "Eight-thirty it is, then! And don't be surprised if I'm fashionably late!" The last sound he heard from her was her chiming laugh as she hurried up the stairs.

* * *

**A/N: first order of business: Sorry sorry sorry sorry! To all my fantastic reviewers, thank you thank you thank you. For a) sticking by me in my crappiest of moods and b) all your comments and criticisms, truly, every single one makes my day over and over again. thank you! now, for the personalized:**

**M:** I know exactly what you mean. yes, its quick, and yes, it bugged me when i was writing it, but here are my reasons for not changing it: a) if you watch the movie, the Beast falls in love with Belle remarkably quickly. maybe it has something do do with the fact he's been able to change over 200 years, i don't know... b) he watches her all the time in the mirror, as I alluded to (maybe not enough) with the "Show me the girl" moment in Chapter 3 and c) Its not really as quick as it came across. in the beginning, he is intrigued, but not in love per say. then he feels attracted to her, but its really mainly an instinctual reaction to her. so yes, he does fall for her in about 5 days, but i speak from experience that when you live with someone for even that short amount of time with that intensity of interaction, you can fall for someone in a fraction of the time you would in a normal situation. so sorry if it all seemed too abrupt, but I didn't want this story to ramble on too long, and have my readers get bored. hope you still like it though despite its flaws =] thanks again and again!

**Lauren:** thank you for the advice. I will address them separately: 'princess-style': i agree with you completely. if I ever go back and edit the story and repost, i will certainly change that. "Chuckle": oops. thats all i can say. obviously it came across as being less cute than i intended. in my mind, Nathaniel was not laughing at the fact that she was crying as though it was humorous that she was upset, but more that she tried to be strong and cover it up with an excuse as obvious as 'something in my eye.' However, now that I think more about it, maybe it was too cute for Nathaniel at that point. I don't know. that will be something i will have to work on if i ever go back and change things. hope you enjoyed the update, and sorry for exploding. thanks!

**blackbeltgirl95: **thank you so much! you have no idea how much that means to me =] hope you enjoyed the update!

**YGUYGUYG: **Sorry! I didn't really mean to explode- well, i did at the time, but now i feel bad about it. I know exactly what you mean, and I'm glad you reprimanded me about that, i needed to hear it. i was getting too spoiled with my reviews. so thank you a bushel and a peck, and i hope you like the story despite my temper tantrums. =]

**jackiemac916:** sorry! wow, I've been saying that a lot, haven't i? trust me though in that i mean every single one! I'm glad you're enjoying it, and found the wolf thing clever. I was having the hardest time with that part, and i'm glad i pulled it off for the most part. thanks again!

**I think that's it for now. as I said to jackiemac916, while I've been saying sorry and thank you a whole bunch this chapter, i really do mean ever single one. You guys are reason I keep going, and even when I explode, know that its only because I miss hearing from you, no matter what your comment may be. So know that you really are loved, and are incredibly important. And please, for the love of god, don't feel bad when a spoiled author like me throws a temper tantrum, because you all are truly special and are the reason so many stories get written every day. so thanks again!**

**xoxoxo A-N**


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